


Infiltration

by Keturagh



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Character, Shapeshifting, Trickster Gods, Tricksters, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: By definition the best roles leave no witnesses to the truth, to the actor behind the role. To disappear completely into the part. To turn the audience against itself until they have so much of themselves in view they see only what you want them to see: the performance you slid inside of, disappearing, magic. Gone.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Infiltration

Infiltration.

O, how the notion of it registered so very, so terribly, pedestrian. To Double Trouble’s mind, the imagination of it — _infiltration_ , what a mundane sort of warfare, something which suggested a coup undertaken quietly in the blue unstarful night, in the deep hours of quiet when only the magic in the planet stirred suddenly many passing bodies disturb the air, there are grimaces, blows, then the boss sacked and the den under new management by morning. And scene. Infiltration like that? Hardly worth the name, clumsy, shuffling feet, a couple locks picked, a leader taken out. 

Hot fires. Double Trouble liked being surrounded by the curling waves of fire and feeling the rocks heat up under their back.

Truly, infiltration was what happened before the night of revolution. Before weapons bared to the moons above the desert shone in the clenched fists of soldiers.

And who had made them soldiers?

… Infiltration…

It could be so much _more,_ Double Trouble lamented for the waste of the act, of the role. _Infiltrator._ A word of discontent here. A nod to a slight given or perceived there. An inconvenient accident, a recalculation of the winning side. Balance; replace the foot to starting position. Undermining; sway the earth to walk under a different pair of feet. Don’t look now. You’ve changed sides. Double trouble! And it _all_ comes down.

Whatever happened to telling people they don’t deserve castles in the first place?

Anyone can be a regent.

Anyone can sit on a throne.

Oops, too far? Apologies, darling! I’ll just take my bag and go. What’s the point in sitting down in a seat of power that was built on such failing, foolish ground anyway. On to the next, as they say. What could happen here, then? Whose role must needs be played?

Double Trouble, they’ve been inside so many kingdoms: small cottage kitchens, the trust of friends, steel walls built for soldiers. And each kingdom has so many intricate shapes by which to unravel! Take a string. Pull. Watch the webbing yawn apart. Learning people is too easy. Giving them the means to see themselves, reflected and ridiculous, at least presents _something_ of a challenge. Vital change, really, imagine what would happen if no one was shown how to destroy themselves? The stagnation! The boredom of it. Things around here could use a little shaking up.

The fires make it dim, but it turns out there are more than a few stars in the sky. After all, things change. The only way out of the character of the present is to adopt a new shape.

Yet, truly. It’s too, too easy to know people, if you really pay attention. Would there ever be a challenge for Double Trouble? To outclass by many degrees the skill of one’s peers is an isolating, annoying advantage. Looking back, all too easy. Throwaway roles. Sigh and look to the next great part! The next shape of interest, the next prodding at that boundary of genius to inquire once again, now have I reached the limit of my capabilities? and to be given the reply, ‘not yet. Not yet.’ And to walk unscathed in the flames. What a magic in these shifting shapes! What constant, boring disappointment, yet the show must go on, and so the lines are said, and will it ever end?

They say it out loud. Unexpectedly, behind them, _she_ answers gratingly, “It doesn’t, dearie!” And fine, maybe they were startled. Maybe they _hate_ it when she sneaks up on them like that out of nowhere. But no one could have known, and that’s acting, that’s all that’s really important.

“I wasn’t talking to _you._ ” She’s the least imaginative person on the planet, the Madame, so very irritatingly captured by events she’ll never have the chance to truly change them.

There’s rubble everywhere, fire to dodge. She’s babbling on, “What’s that?? OH! Yes, dearie, but I am meeting Mara, I need to find Mara—”

“Don’t bother.”

But it’s too late, she’s shifted time-wise as they shift shape-wise. Their voice falls flat on the empty air, the only sound besides the crackling of fire. She’s gone again until her next annoying entrance. No audience. It had been a good delivery, ‘don’t bother.’ Dry. All of their performances had been good lately, exceptional, even. Not like anyone appreciated a good performance properly even when there was an audience to play to; Double Trouble could give life to any role, including the one the audience gave to themselves, but was there anyone who understood, truly, what that meant?

_Infiltration._

By definition the best roles leave no witnesses to the truth, to the actor behind the role. To disappear completely into the part. To turn the audience against itself until they have so much of themselves in view they see only what you want them to see: the performance you slid inside of, disappearing, magic. Gone. COULD anyone, in ANY place, resist the spell of the stage they could set? What a bother, limitlessness. So very mundane. Where’s a real challenge? Is nothing impossible? Can no kingdom be untoppled by performance? 

The high chairs were all getting rather too comfy anyway. 

The world needed a few fires.


End file.
